


the friend of your enemy is a weapon

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, POV Gabriel, POV Outsider, Pov Hastur, Reflection, Revenge, musings on the concept of hate, post not apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 14:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: (Alternate title: Gabriel is more punchable than you thought!)Gabriel and Hastur are not coping well with the failed apocalypse. Not at all.——Gabriel has always hated Aziraphale— or, not hated; angels can't technically hate anything. So disliked, found lacking, something perpetually worth disapproval.///////Hastur has always hated Crowley. Not that he doesn't hate the other demons, that would be rude, but the way he hates Crowley is different.——





	the friend of your enemy is a weapon

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to hate Gabriel more, for some reason. I do so love to hate him.

Gabriel has always hated Aziraphale— or, not hated; angels can't technically hate anything. So disliked, found lacking, something perpetually worth disapproval. Aziraphale with his fussy jackets and undignified bowties, his disturbing obsession with humanity. All quite clearly worth of disapproval, at the least. Not to mention his down right embarrassing gluttony, as evidenced by his gut.

Gabriel has always thought Aziraphale danced too closely with sin, besides gluttony, there is pride in the way he dresses himself, greed in the hoarding of his books. Lust, maybe, if the reports are correct about that gentlemen’s club of his. Aziraphale has lost his way on Earth long ago, but Gabriel hadn’t found it in himself to intervene— because to intervene would be to care, and Gabriel really couldn’t give a care about this less than satisfactory angel. Whenever Aziraphale came to report, his biggest priority was getting him out of his sight again. 

Because for an angel that speaks so much, he says absolutely nothing of worth. All his little hypothesis and ideas and ugh— Gabriel has never experienced a hangover, but he thinks he understands the concept. A throbbing _something_ in his head whenever Aziraphale passes through, ever babbling, eternally annoying. 

So it really isn’t his fault for not reading between the lines. His frustration — disapproval, very objective objections — had blinded him to what Aziraphale’s omissions revealed: the demon he had been sent to Earth for, had devolved from an assignment to an ally. He had begun to work with the demon. But that hadn’t been the worst of it, Aziraphale seemed to _care_ for him, this Crowley. Truly disgusting, that. 

But still, this could have just been another one of Aziraphale’s quirks: factory mistake that would inevitably — _finally,_ thank the Lord — make him fall. Gabriel had already been looking forward to that day, so by the time Micheal had revealed the true nature of Aziraphale’s relationship with Crowley, it merely added another corrupted feather to Aziraphale’s undeserving radiant plumes. 

But it hadn’t come. They stopped the apocalypse, made the preparations for the war all for nothing, an angel betraying Heaven in every sense of the word. 

And yet Aziraphale refused the common courtesy to finally fucking die. 

God herself may not have made Aziraphale fall for his actions that day, but he has sinned in more ways than one. Gabriel might have realised it too late— should have stopped it before it came this far, but he saw in that moment of desperation, the darkest sin Aziraphale has committed during those unobserved milennia on Earth. 

He’s given his heart to a demon, his loyalty to the enemy, in the worst possible way.

He has fallen in love. 

Gabriel might have been angry — if he could be, he’s an angel so that actually can’t be what he’s feeling, of course. But he can push the heat in his chest away, ignore it, for Aziraphale's betrayal has given him exactly what he needs. 

Aziraphale must feel the consequences of his treachery, must be punished for being the corrupted shadow of perfection, giving angels a bad name. But in her ineffable ways, God has made it clear that Aziraphale is off limits. 

So delightfully fortunate then, that Crowley is not.

———————-

Hastur has always hated Crowley. Not that he doesn't hate the other demons, that would be rude, but the way he hates Crowley is different. Hate can be roaring fire, the release after a scream, or the edge of a blade into squirming skin. Hatred is satisfying, all encompassing, consuming and fulfilling. But not with Crowley, not for a long time. 

His hatred for Crowley makes his skin crawl, it feels sick and wrong and unlike any demon he’s hated since. Every word Crowley utters causes a tug of something strange— a lesser emotion, like boredom, whenever the useless excuse of a demon came down with another presentation. Or annoyance and frustration, growing once it had become clear that Crowley is not merely incompetent: he’s a traitor. 

Their war, their beautiful — horrible — war with the angels. Thwarted, by Crowley himself. 

What a delicious hatred it would have been; ethereal or infernal, all caught up in the burn of it. For each other, with each other. Hastur had wanted it so badly. Everyone had. Even the angels. 

But Crowley, ever babbling, ever late, ever idiotic Crowley, had stopped the proceedings by helping the antichrist defy Satan, with an angel on his side. 

Hastur shivers at the thought of the angel. His hatred of Crowley spilling over to the heavenly enemy— which does not usually happen. Hatred is personal, carefully tailored to the individual, but in this case that isn’t really necessary. All that is hateful about Crowley is exemplified, even endorsed, by the angel, making the hatred of one transferable to the other. Crowley has always been so desperate for approval, as if he sometimes forgot he was in Hell. So it shouldn’t be surprising that Crowley had found himself an angel that would give him what he isn’t supposed to want. 

And yet, despite everything Crowley has done, there is no punishment to speak off. All the crawling sickly hatred of thousands of years would have been worth it, if Hastur had watched Crowley perish in that bath. To see him melt in the essence of what he’d betrayed Hell for— yes, if that had happened, Hastur would have been satisfied. 

But it didn’t. Crowley had grown far from demonic that the water did not touch him. Some think it was a trick, but Hastur has another theory. If any demon found a way to become immune to holy water, they would have become a legend. But if Crowley had... _of course_ ,he wouldn’t have told them. He’s just showing his true colours once more. 

If it hadn’t been for one thing, Hastur could have let it go— Hell is hell, after all, and satisfaction is not a luxury anyone— or insane — tries to claim. But Ligur is _gone_ , while Crowley lives: free to galvanise with the humans on Earth, together with that wretched angel. Hastur can’t allow that to continue. Crowley doesn’t deserve an ending like that. 

The crawling hatred sharpens to a point, like an arrow, aimed at the target that will make this— this _hole_ in his chest go away. He has to fill the void Ligur left behind with Crowley’s suffering, and he knows exactly how. 

The truth is, Hastur has always hated Crowley, but this hatred does not blind him anymore. He has been lurking for a long time, trying to figure out what made Crowley so different, why he always felt so sickly wrong. He had to see it to believe it— a little park bench, fingers twined and shoulders close — but Hastur had finally realised why the hatred around Crowley had always felt so disgustingly strange. 

It was love that he had felt. Love he still feels, watching from afar as the angel kisses— _kisses!_ — Crowley on the cheek. He almost blows his cover by vomiting all over, but the moment he has fled, a cackle bursts out of his throat instead. 

Crowley must be punished. Yet Crowley is off limits, as ordered by Beelzebub themselves. 

Lucky, then, that Aziraphale is not. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all liked that. I'm still very much in a Good Omens mood, so don't worry there will be more ineffable husbands in the future. You just gotta be a bit patient ;) This idea just didn't leave me and it looked like it wouldn't spawn a multi chaptered story, like many of my other ideas are trying to do. 
> 
> Thank you Nina for the beta!


End file.
